


Clipped Wings in Flight

by Ferith12



Series: The Games of Soldiers [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:28:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27386461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferith12/pseuds/Ferith12
Summary: Feliciano took one of Roderich’s blank papers and very carefully spelled out, "FELICIANO VARGAS"
Series: The Games of Soldiers [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1641721
Kudos: 1





	Clipped Wings in Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently small children in terrible circumstances being very attatched to their names is a recurring theme for me.

The woman who came to their back door every saturday to sort through their trash and take it away had a kind smile and dark hair streaked with gray, and Feliciano thought she was very pretty. She didn’t ever have to be in a hurry, so she always stopped to talk with him for a while. She always paid attention to what he said, and nodded solemnly like she thought it was important, even though it mostly wasn’t, and she told him about people in other houses on her route, and sometimes if she had a _lot_ of time, or if Feliciano sorted the trash for her so her hands were free, she would tell him stories.

Her name was Rose, but only in the way that Feliciano’s name was Sunshine. He’d asked.

He thought about it all day after that, how he didn’t really know her name, and she didn’t know his. It made him sad, and it made him angry, and Feliciano hated being angry so he tried to find a way to fix it.

As soon as he saw the answer, he felt dumb for not having thought of it earlier. Roderich Edelstein was a very messy person, and he left his sheet music paper and pens all over the place. It was no trouble at all to steal some, Feliciano had done it several times before to draw pictures. When Mr. Edelstein caught him, he had been very angry, but he had only caught him once, and for this, Feliciano was willing to take the risk.

So that next saturday, Feliciano took one of Roderich’s blank papers and very carefully spelled out, "FELICIANO VARGAS," and when Rose came in the afternoon he thrust the paper and pen into her hands.

“It’s my name,” he said excitedly, “You can write down yours and show me too!”

Rose carefully set the paper down and put the pen on top of it.

“Sunshine,” she said gently, “I don’t know how to read or write.”

Feliciano stared at her.

“But…” he said, “You’re a grown-up.”

“And I was no older than you are when I came here. I think I knew how to write my name then, but I’ve forgotten now, and no one ever taught me since. I’m sorry. A lot of us don’t know these things.”

Feliciano had never considered that, that knowing how to read wasn’t something that just happened to you as you grew up. He’d had to learn, of course, he’d memorized his letters and his name and learned to sound out a few easy words. His grandfather had taught him, and he’d hated it, drawing pictures and not paying attention most of the time. But it had never occurred to him that if he went on not paying attention he might never learn to read at all, even if he lived to be a hundred. That he had to learn to read _on purpose_ , or else he’d never know how, that he had to remember how to write his name _on purpose_ , or else he’d forget.

“So I’ll never know your real name?” he asked.

“You already know my real name,” Rose said, “Rose is just as real a name as the one I had before, I chose it and I like it, and it’s important.”

Feliciano nodded, but he didn’t really agree. The names they made for themselves in their own language were important, and they were good, but they weren’t the same as the ones given to them at birth. Rose would never be able to call him by the name that his grandfather had called him, that his brother had called, that his mother had given him, the only thing he had of a woman who died when he was too young to remember, not with her tongue, and not even in the privacy of her mind. The Capitol had stolen that from her, and it had stolen her name from him.

“Your letters are beautiful,” Rose said, “I’m sure you have a beautiful name.”

But Feliciano couldn’t see her say it, his eyes were scrunched closed with crying.

(He promised himself then, that he would never ever forget how to write his name, he would practice writing his letters until his hand hurt, and he would look at all of Roderich and Mr. Eddlestein’s books and learn to read every one of them, even though it was boring and hard, and even though Mr. Eddlestein would be very, very angry if he found out.)


End file.
